Double Edged Sword
by rowanred
Summary: It is one of the great ironies of life. That which that makes you strong, can bring you to your knees in a heartbeat. Tag on for Hunted.


_AN/A little AU tag-on for Hunted. I can't believe Gordon is _that _bad a shot, and Sam needs a little time to think things through. HurtDean and SamAngst._

_

* * *

The term a_ double-edged sword_ can be used as an expression for anything that can simultaneously help and hinder, as when, in swordfighting, a person can increase his leverage by putting his hand on the blade, which might win the contest but also result in a wound._

Sleep eluded Sam. He could not escape the horrors of life whilst conscious and guarded. He dared not trust himself to relinquish that control. Not when death and grief lay lurking, waiting to pounce.

The protagonist in the vivid and unwelcome twists of his mind lay unusually still on the bed closest to the door. Dean had been sleeping peacefully for close to five hours, free from nightmares, and Sam was glad. The fever that had taken hold of his brother had broken close to midnight, and Sam knew he had heard his own name whispered in anguish in the frightening few hours Dean had hovered perilously close to the abyss.

He doubted Dean would remember much of the past night, regaining consciousness only long enough for Sam to manhandle him into fresh boxers and a t-shirt, before succumbing to exhaustion and the relative comfort of the motel's pillows.

The thrust into the role of caretaker had sent Sam spiralling back to the harrowing cross-country drive to Nebraska, in search of a miracle to cure Dean's heart. Those days, and especially the nights, had come close to breaking him. If Dean had been cantankerous and weary during the day, at night it was if Death had already wrapped one arm around the young hunter's shoulders. During his waking moments, Dean had openly studied his little brother, as if trying to memorise every detail of Sam to take with him into whatever fate lay beyond death. It had made Sam want to scream, lash out at the world, and the only way to cope was to stand under a scalding shower and hope Dean couldn't hear his sobs over the fall of the water.

Still, they had fought back the reaper then, and Dean was skirting the edge of the woods now. But the assurance of his brother's well-tested ability to escape from the claws of the unknown did nothing to reassure Sam. If anything, knowing that Dean had been repeatedly dangled above death's jaw like a tempting entrée made him want to handcuff the man to the nearest solid surface and never let him do anything so stupid again.

Of course, Dean had said exactly the same thing to Sam. More than once. Dean was actually pissed with Sam for walking headfirst into Gordon's trap.

As if he could have done otherwise.

Dean would have, and had, for that matter. So many times that Sam had honestly lost track, and knew that if he had to get himself blown up to start paying his brother back for all the times he'd saved Sam's ass, he'd happily pull the pin on a hundred grenades.

No, he knew he had done the right thing in ignoring Ava's pleas and going for Dean alone. He'd always known, but peering through the patchy wooden walls, and seeing Dean helpless and looking so fucking desolate, Sam could have killed Gordon Walker right there and then.

And that was his first problem.

Walker wasn't the first person he had wanted to kill, nor would he be the last. Dean's torso and bandaged shoulder bore testament to all the sons of bitches Sam had wanted to kill for laying a hand on his big brother.

That crazy hillbilly family who had been all set for staring roles in the next Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and that bastard detective Sheridan, Sam could have happily put a bullet in any of them.

Maybe not the little girl.

But the others, all fair game. And there were plenty of them.

Looking at the bound form of his brother, and the sinister shadow of the rogue hunter, Sam had no way of knowing if Dean was hurt. The psychotic hunter was bound to be pissed with Dean for the vampire incident. Walker could have done anything to him.

Not that it had really mattered in the end. Sam simply wanted to kill the evil son of a bitch for making _him_ trip those wires- for making Sam fire the metaphorical bullet into Dean's heart. He didn't need to be psychic to know what the second explosion had done to his brother -didn't need any supernatural skill to pick up on the waves of anguish pouring from the bound hunter.

Yet he had stayed his hand. Gave Gordon the mother of all headaches, but didn't blow his brains across the filthy cabin floor.

That was why he couldn't tear his eyes from Dean's sleeping form. That was why he couldn't trust to sleep, not whilst his brother was so vulnerable, and maybe not until a long time after Dean healed.

His brother was the only one who knew how terrified Sam was of his so-called destiny, of becoming a killer, but truthfully, that wasn't what scared him most.

What scared him most was that Dean was the only person who could invoke in him the desire to kill. If kidnapping and torturing his brother couldn't make Sam pull the trigger, he was petrified as to what lengths the yellow-eyed-demon would go to push him over the edge. And what that would mean for Dean.

It had taken him years to figure it out, to get the conflicted feelings sorted in his head, and even then, it was his father's death that had finally provided the last pieces to the puzzle. He knew he was Dean's biggest, perhaps his only, weakness. Now he knew that Dean was his. His pillar of strength. Dean was the foundation of his life, and the dynamite packed around it, ready to blow at any second and obliterate everything Sam knew.

Sam had never been fond of the expression 'double edge sword', but he couldn't think of a better way of summing up the relationship he had with his brother.

Dean was his strength. His weakness. He was simply everything.

Almost as if sensing his little brother's inner turmoil, Dean twisted in the sheets, still unconscious, and reached for Sam. Taking Dean's cool hand in his own, Sam could faintly hear him whisper "Sammy," into the stale air of the motel room.

Dean's hair was too short to need brushing back from his sweaty forehead, but that did not stop Sam from trying to sooth the creases of worry that had scored themselves above Dean's clenched eyes.

"Hey bro, time to wake up. You've used up your beauty sleep quota for the next month already." Calmed by the hand on his head, Dean stilled but didn't open his eyes. Sam was struck by the irrational need to see the gaze that swirled with emotion, no matter how empty Dean's face was.

Slowly, channelling his father, he took Dean's shoulders in his hands, careful to avoid the area where the bullet had pierced skin, and leant close to Dean's face. "Dean. Wake. Up. Now."

It was an order, and it made Sam mad to see how effective it was. Not to mention guilty as hell. Dean's eyes opened, bleary and bloodshot, but free from the glassy, feverish film that had covered them a few hours previously.

"Sam?" Dean had to swallow a few times against the dryness of his throat, and his voice was scratchy as a result. It was fucking glorious in Sam's mind. "What-" the older hunter blinked, not moving out of Sam's hold, but peering around the motel room in confusion. If Dean remembered nothing of his illness, then they had been at a truck stop the last time he had been conscious. "What happened?"

_What indeed._ The confusion in his brother's eyes did nothing to abate the anger that had slowly been building up in Sam ever since he had been forced to make a dive across asphalt in order to save Dean from a cracked skull. He unconsciously tightened his grip and growled, "You fucking _lied _to me, Dean." Again. "That is what happened."

"I did?" Dean blinked again, clueless as to the cause of Sam's cold anger.

The heart stopping fear that had gripped him as Dean had collapsed lifelessly in the parking lot arose like a phoenix from the ashes, bringing its cousins rage and self-recrimination along for the ride, and made Sam harsher than he intended to be.

"How could you not tell me? Huh? You got _shot, _you stupid bastard. _Shot. _What, it just slipped your mind? You didn't think I deserved to be in the loop, another one of your fucking secrets?" He mentally recoiled from the last insult, knowing it was unfair. Dean's stubborn stupidity wasn't the only issue he had with his brother.

Dean still hadn't pulled away, though he struggled weakly against the hold. "S'not like I was bleeding to death." He slurred.

Sam rolled his eyes at the logic. "Did you sleep through dad's fieldmed lectures? Infection, dude. What if you'd been driving? Huh? Fancy another car wreck?" _Three days, Dean, _three days after Gordon the psycho hunter had fired after the brothers as they fled the cabin from hell. Three days in which Dean had patched Sam up and hunted for Ava, and not said a. fucking. word.

Fucking hell. Ava. Well that explained why Sam had not discerned anything out the ordinary. Dean could have been missing a limb and Sam wouldn't have noticed. No, he was too caught up in his own problems-

"Sorry, dad." Dean whispered, loosing the fight with exhaustion. "I'll do better, I will."

Sam's eyes stung. He wanted to claw them out of his head.

God, things were so fucked up.

Immediately he loosened his grip and allowed Dean to sink back into the sheets.

_He said I had to save you. And that if I couldn't, then I had to kill you._

Heartsick, Sam buried his head in his hands. "God, Dean. I don't know how to protect you from this." _Or how to save you from me. _Either way, Dean's status as a casualty of war had been tattooed on the older hunter's forehead. One way or another, Dean was going to die.

"Not your job to." Dean muttered, his eyes closed. "Mine. Watch out for Sammy."

"Maybe it's Sammy's time to watch out for you."

"I'm big brother."

_Big brother. _Which was a literal licence to kill.

"You're not a killer, Dean." Sam whispered into the darkness. Morally unstable, perhaps. Possessing questionable ethics, but no killer.

"Neither are you."

He laughed without mirth. "No, but apparently I'm evil."

"You're a brat, that's what you are."

"Jerk."

Dean was fast asleep again, but Sam heard 'bitch'. He smiled, watched dawn slowly light up the room, and listened to the steady sound of Dean's breathing. No matter what happened, he wouldn't try facing his fate alone. Not again. His presence might get Dean killed, but without his brother's strength, Sam was a dead man, and his brother would be right on his heels down to Hell.

If they were going to die, then let it be together, side by side into the flames that had born them.


End file.
